


i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

by broments



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24423169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broments/pseuds/broments
Summary: Jon, Martin, and the end and beginning of the world.[Spoilers for all seasons/episodes; picks up after ep 167 directly.]
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	1. THE DARK

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to @aerialbots on twitter for the RIDICULOUSLY FAST BETA. 
> 
> thanks to jack, ash, drea for listening to me have a breakdown as i wrote this in a week. i started listening to TMA approximately April...24th ish? finished it about 2 weeks ago, and now i have 45k (ish) of fic here for you, after having a mental breakdown on twitter over mainlining the show in a month and then writing ridic amounts of fic. 
> 
> thanks to my friends for not saying anything as i kept listening and saying shit like "wow i just want jon and martin to get together" "wow i love how much martin clearly loves jon haha maybe I'll write fic where they get together" "wow hahaha this feels like 150+ eps of slow burn" 
> 
> some notes: 
> 
> 80% of this was written before eps 168/169, and while there are some...brief plot beats that are a bit janky, overall it mostly fits. some people live that were killed, some people that lived get killed. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ please note there is WILD speculation on the basis of jon's powers, the Eye, the Web, and other stuff that I'm fully expecting to get jossed on.
> 
> this fic summary was almost: "martin: [slaps the top of jon's head] this bad boy can fit SO many fears in it" 
> 
> the fic itself is...done, in that all but the last chapter is done and written and i'm going thru making edits right now. the last chapter is outlined in full, i'm just wrestling with some points i want to get figured out and that requires re-listening to the series intermittently.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: tags will be updated for EACH CHAPTER but if you feel like i missed it or any TWs, please let me know! 
> 
> CH1 trigger warnings include: general TMA level stuff, fear of the dark, nothing too hard.

i carry your heart with me  
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in  
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere  
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done  
by only me is your doing,my darling)  
i fear  
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want  
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)  
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant  
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

  
here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows  
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

  
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

_e. e. cummings_

* * *

“Well,” Martin says, looking at the sliver of light left across the grass, before everything turns pitch black in front of them. It shouldn’t be possible: there’s grass, and then, like a curtain falling over everything in front of them, nothing but darkness. The Dark and the others don’t really _care_ about what should or shouldn’t be possible, though, so he really shouldn’t be surprised. “I don’t suppose torches would do us any good here? How are we… well, supposed to see?” 

He has, of course, brought some. At least three, tucked around in the bags they’ve carried so far that he’s certain his shoulders are going to have permanent indents from the weight. The issue isn’t the lack of torches, but the fact that he’s not entirely certain they’re going to _work_. 

Next to him, Jon is quiet a long moment, eyeing the small patch of ground in front them. His leg lifts, foot dipping into the darkness, and it’s as if the shadow eats it. Logically, Martin knows that Jon’s foot is fine, but it just… fades away. 

“I don’t suppose they will,” Jon answers distantly. Martin glances over at him, but Jon’s eyes are closed, his brows furrowed in thought. He doesn’t _sound_ particularly pressed about it, so Martin doesn’t bother to drag an answer out, instead opting to reach a hand out, sticking it into the darkness in front of them. It swallows his hand, just as easily as it had Jon’s foot, but it’s as if his hand stops at the wrist. A black curtain, swallowing his hand entirely, even if he is quite certain it’s there. Kind of fascinating, really, if it weren’t for the whole _rest_ of the situation. “Ah— _Martin,_ don’t _touch_ it, what is—”

Jon’s hand shoots out and curls around his wrist, fingers unable to wrap all the way around it but still strong enough of a grip to tug Martin’s hand out and back into the dim, ethereal lighting around them. It’s — weird. On the other side, it almost felt like he’d touched something, like a bag, or a jacket. “Wh- sorry! I thought we were going in!” A pause, then a little more hopefully: “Are we _not_ going in?” 

“We’re going in,” Jon starts, and keeps going over the sound of Martin’s little disappointed _oh_ , though his hand squeezes Martin’s wrist lightly. “But I would prefer you don’t stick your hand into somewhere we cannot _see_ into until I’ve made sure it’s safe.” 

“Right, right,” Martin wiggles his fingers, easing the odd tingle out of them and shakes Jon’s hand off just so he can wind their fingers together instead. “Is it, though? Really?” 

“Hm?” Jon’s doing the Knowing thing again, his eyes closed, and Martin shamelessly shifts his weight to look at Jon instead of the wall of blackness in front of them. “Safe? Mmm. As safe as anywhere is, I suppose, but…” 

“Sooo, not safe at all. At least it’s consistent.” That is one easy aspect of all of this; at least he knows everything here wants to eat or kill or torture or any other number of awful things. It’s more of a surprise when something shows up and _doesn’t_ want to feast on his flesh or brains or whatever the course _du jour_ is. 

“Martin.” Jon opens one eye, and then the other and turns the full weight of his attention from the curtain of darkness in front of them to Martin himself, pupils ringed with the same sickly, electric green as the Eye above them. “You _will_ be safe with me. I won’t allow anything to happen to you.” 

“I know.” The thing is, Martin believes it. 

Or, believes that Jon will do everything in his power to make sure that Martin stays safe, and that on some level, he’s relatively safe just by virtue of his ties to Jon and the fact that Jon… kind of orchestrated all of this, unintentionally. The problem isn’t that he thinks anything will get them on the way, more that he feels relatively certain in the assumption that they’ll make it all the way to where the Tower is and Elias will take one look at them and understand everything. That Martin is the weak link here, that he’s Jon’s weak spot, that he’s at best, leverage, and at worst… well. 

It isn’t as if there’s another option besides going forward. “We’ll make it through. I don’t… believe the Dark is particularly _happy_ to have us here at its door, but it can’t do anything about us, so long as you stay close. Don’t let go of my hand, Martin, no matter what.” 

“Wasn’t… _really_ planning to, but yes.” Martin loops their fingers together a little tighter, rough fingertips stroking over the wax-like scarring on Jon’s knuckles and the back of his hand like smoothing over a worry stone. The burns still make his stomach turn, which feels absurd given he didn’t have to experience the awfulness of his own hand burning. “We’re supposed to experience all of this, right? So we’re going to… what, experience, um, darkness? Just muddle our way through until we reach the end? We’re not going to have to rub sand in our eyes to escape, will we?” 

“What? No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Jon’s eyes open again, finally, still ringed with green, but the warmth on his face is all Jon. “Don’t touch anything, and if anything shows up, just ignore it.” 

That’s easier said than done, all things considered, especially because Martin _remembers_ the nightmare tale of the Sandman from poor Dr. Algernon, but it isn’t as if they have much of a choice. Impossible for the Sandman to sweep him away into the sack if he’s holding onto Jon’s hand, anyway, right? Probably. Would the Sandman even have a sack large enough for him? 

“Well!” Martin’s own voice surprises him in its volume, and he lowers it just a touch as Jon’s lips twist in a rough attempt at a smile. “Once more into the darkness, right?” 

“Once more,” Jon agrees quietly, and takes the first step in, the darkness swallowing him up neatly, tugging Martin in along after him. 

One moment, they’re on one side of the massive curtain, and the next, they’re through. It’s odd; Martin had expected it would… _feel_ like something, almost like walking into thick jello, but instead they make it through and the only real difference is the chill. No part of the world that they’ve been through or heard of has retained any sort of warmth, not from the sun, but this is different. At least out there, there was some semblance of light, even if it was dingy and weak, at best. Here, there’s… nothing. 

“Jon,” Martin starts, hesitant, his feet stilling against the ground. The point of connection between them goes tighter, Jon’s hand gripping him firmly, trying to tug him along, but he’s a far bit heavier than a pipe, and Jon is wildly unsuccessful. There’s a low, mournful sobbing somewhere to his left, or maybe his right, along with a soft cacophony of voices crying out, calling to each other with no answer. “ _Jon_.” 

Next to him, Jon is silent, standing straight and stiff. Martin can’t _see_ him, but he can feel the tight line of tension and in the briefest of pauses between screams, he hears Jon whispering, muttering under his breath. “Oh, no, _no_ , not again, Jon! We do _not_ have time for you to go somewhere else, I—” 

He’s not exactly keen on the idea of smacking Jon out of it again; it works, certainly but he has no way of knowing if he’s going to make things worse, or better by interrupting whatever it is Jon is doing. There’s the faintest _click_ from Jon’s bag and Martin doesn’t have to see it to glare at the bag and the recorder within it.

“Don’t you _dare,_ ” Martin hisses at it, turning to face Jon. He might not be able to _see_ Jon, but he can certainly feel him. The hand not furiously gripped around Jon’s own reaches over, presses against the center of his chest and rises up until he feels Jon’s face, the perpetual scratch of stubble over his skin, hair falling from its tie loose around his ears. “Jon, I really, really don’t enjoy smacking you awake, but we can’t just stop here!” 

If this keeps happening at wildly inopportune times, Martin thinks he might _start to_. Distantly, he becomes aware of an odd sound. Not like rushing water, too soft and faint for that, but steady, consistent. When his head tilts, he’s no closer to figuring out what direction it’s coming from, only that it’s coming closer, getting louder. He’s not— he’s _not_ panicked, he’s totally in control and everything is _fine_ , this is an absolutely reasonable amount of fear to be experiencing given the situation. 

Jon’s still muttering under his breath, soft and near-silent but rising; when Martin’s hands slide up, fingers stroking over the line of his brow, his eyes are closed. The pattering noise gets closer, closer, until it stops, just next to them and there’s a low, soft breath out. Without thinking, Martin’s legs move without him; he twists and plants both feet solidly against the ground, facing off against a monster he can’t see. 

“We’re _busy_ ,” Martin tells it, with all the ferocity he can muster into his voice. Behind him, Jon still isn’t moving and the tape recorder keeps running. His grip on Jon’s hand tightens to the point that he almost feels bad for it, gripping it so tightly. “We aren’t staying! We’ve got better things to do, just like—I’m sure, I’m sure you do, so— go on!” 

He’s not quite sure how he knows it, but the thing, whatever it is, the Sandman, or Mr. Pitch, whatever it goes by, stops. The sound doesn’t, but it ceases moving and stands there; Martin has the unsettling feeling of being watched without being able to see. That, at least, is familiar; it’s been a part of his life for years now, so Martin sets his jaw, hand tightening around Jon’s, pulling at it. Jon doesn’t move. Another pull, more insistent, tugging at Jon’s arm hard enough he feels rather bad for it, but Jon still isn’t moving, and Martin sucks a slow breath in through his nose and makes a decision. 

If they’re safer together, and this thing isn’t attacking, then he just… needs to bring Jon with him. If everything goes to hell, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little protection, either. Keeping Jon’s hand tight against his, Martin fumbles for the bottle of water attached to his backpack and crouches. It takes some creative maneuvering to be able to open it up and unfasten the lid with only one hand, but he manages. It’s been empty for days, weeks, months, who knows how long because time doesn’t seem to have much meaning, but it means it’s easy enough to gather up some of the fine-grit sand that’s spilled across the ground, piling as that creature stands over them, watching, waiting. He shoves two fistfuls into the bottle as best as he can making a funnel with his fingers and then rises up. 

Jon is still talking, creepily narrating an already creepy situation. If he won’t move, then Martin will just — he’ll carry him. Fine. 

“Sorry,” Martin tells Jon, rather insincerely, and pats his way across Jon’s body until he finds his leg with one hand. Only then does he release Jon’s hand, grunting as he scoops the other man up, carrying him bridal style. He’s _heavy_ , two full bags and a fully grown man in his arms, but Jon’s carried all of them one way or another; Martin can do this. 

It’s easy; one foot in front of the other, slow, steady, Jon’s unceasing monologue easier to hear this close up, which _really_ isn’t ideal. The thing already knows they’re here, doesn’t it? It isn’t as if they have to hide, so he starts humming, loud under his breath, drowning out the sound of Jon, and continues walking. 

Every so often he hears something. A whispering voice calling him closer, almost but not quite one he recognizes. The hitching breath of someone sobbing, asking if anyone is there over and over and over, insisting they’re _lost_. Martin hums louder, any song he can think of, from nursery rhymes to that godawful song that had been playing on the radio non-stop two days before all of this happened. 

One foot in front of the other, ignoring the way it feels like it gets _darker, colder,_ each step he takes, and the sound of rustling, the fall of sand behind him that keeps coming. The creature doesn’t speak; it doesn’t need to, he supposes, because Martin is plenty terrified without it trying to talk. 

“I hope you’re enjoying the snack,” Martin mutters finally, stumbling over a raised patch of the ground with a low oof, nearly dropping Jon, who doesn’t seem to notice. His grip shifts and Martin continues, determined. “Really, shouldn’t you be full by now? How many people do you have to snack on in here? Plenty! And instead you’re, what, following us around? Haven’t you got anything better to do?” 

No answer— not that he really suspected he’d get one, not that it’d be _better_ if the creepy monster started responding to his rhetorical questions but at least if he’s talking, it feels a little less like he can hear every horrible thing around him. “I don’t really see what the appeal is, honestly. All this darkness is boring, after a while. Creepy, yeah, but that’s pretty much everything here. Creepy. Not _really_ original, are we?” 

Maybe he _shouldn’t_ be taunting the creature given the stories about it attacking people who weren’t afraid, but nothing has happened yet. “C’mon, Jon, feel free to wake up at any time.” 

Jon, frustratingly, does not wake up. Martin catches the faintest wisp of what he’s saying, _the darkness that twines and writhes, reaching, reaching,_ and abruptly decides, that nope, no, he doesn’t need to know the details, and if humming isn’t working well enough, then talking it is. 

“The least you could do is answer some questions, you know. I can’t... I know I’m not _the Archivist_ , and I can’t compel the questions out of you, but you’d think I wouldn’t need to. I mean! Here you are, doing all of _this,_ when everything we know about you is from what the stories people give. I know most of it is true, but I’m sure there’s just as much that isn’t. You could set it all right! Clear up… clear up any misconceptions, as it were. Though, I suppose it makes sense you don’t do that. That’s not what the Darkness is about, hm? The Eye watches, but the Dark probably _likes_ it all muddled and confusing.” 

Martin blows out a long breath, trudging along silently for a bit, followed by the creeping darkness, decidedly ignoring Jon’s talk about _inky tendrils_ and _hopeless darkness_. “I suppose you can’t resist, can you. Slave to your nature and all that. And then we walk in, like some sort of… of… I don’t know, _snack trolley_. You can’t honestly tell me that all of this is what you lot even really wanted, is it? This? I thought the whole goal was for just one of you to come through. Now all of you have to share, and it isn’t like any of you strike me as particularly _good_ at it. More likely to break your toys than to share them.” 

The ground shifts underneath his feet, as if in answer, or maybe just to get rid of them all the faster. Ahead, even if there’s no real meaning behind the word, there’s the faintest outline of something bright. Shadowed, yes, but bright enough that Martin squints and thinks, maybe, he sees light. 

“Figures. Light at the end of the tunnel,” Martin mutters, picking up the pace just a little. “Jon?” 

In his arms, Jon doesn’t respond, still murmuring, a low, steady swirl of words that would be hypnotic if it weren’t for the fact that he has other things to focus on, like not getting them lost in whatever nightmare he’s currently leading them through. “We’ve really got to figure out a better solution than this, you know. As much fun as slapping you awake might be, I’d, well, really rather _not_ if I can help it. Then again maybe it’d… just make things worse. If you doing this means you get to keep feeding yourself, then maybe I… well. Maybe it’s just best, right? Can’t have you feeling peckish, not when all of this depends on you being able to—oh!” 

Somehow, oddly, the light has gotten brighter. Bright enough for Martin to orient himself and start walking to it, a little faster, followed by the steady pour of sand from the mouth of whatever is following them. Eager to get out of this nightmare, Martin’s pace picks up to what could, charitably, be called a light run. A jog, even. In his arms, Jon doesn’t stir, and Martin focuses on that faint, shimmery piece of light he can see like it’s the only thing that matters. He doesn’t _get_ tired here, he doesn’t get hungry, so his arm muscles certainly don’t need to worry about fatigue. 

Closer, until one foot in front of the other and then Martin tumbles out of the Dark, sending both of them to the ground in a heap of limbs. Mostly, he avoids falling on and potentially hurting Jon worse; his palm takes a nasty scrape against the ground, dirt and grit ground into it, already burning, his knees aching from the tumble. 

On the ground, Jon is sprawled, blinking dazed up at the sky until Martin leans over him and some of that constipated worry smooths out of his expression. “Martin? Where—?” 

“Oh, _good_ , I really, really didn’t want to have to smack you again. I don’t— I mean, sometimes you are _so frustrating_ that I’d rather shake you than argue, but I—” Martin stumbles to a halt as Jon hooks a hand around the nape of his neck and tugs him in until their foreheads touch, gentle, unbearably sweet. “We’re out. Of the Dark, I mean. Not quite sure where we are _now,_ but I can see again, so…” 

“The Desolation,” Jon says quietly, somehow knowing without needing to look around. _The lightless flame._ There’s plenty of light here, though it all seems to stop a good foot behind them, shuttered by the very same curtain they’ve gone through. “I’m… I’m sorry, you must’ve… you had to listen to me the whole way, didn’t you?” 

Then, like he’s realizing exactly what that means, Jon pulls back and stares, first at Martin’s hands, and then at his face. “Um,” Martin says, not quite certain if that’s a good sort of look or not. “I mean, I sort of talked over it? We were being, um, followed? A bit? Tall, dark, and ominous just followed us around til we got out. He, he, uh, _it._ didn’t do anything, though! Sorry if the tape’s a bit… well, you know.” 

Somehow, Jon doesn’t seem overly pressed about the tape being covered by Martin’s chatter; he’s still staring at Martin’s arms, and while the lighting isn’t really _good_ it’s still enough that Martin gets the distinct pleasure of watching warmth crawl up Jon’s cheeks, to the tips of his ears. “You carried me through the Dark.” 

“Ah,” Martin says, instantly bashful despite everything, pulling back just a touch to rub the nape of his neck. “Well, you started talking, and I really, really didn’t want to stay there any longer than we _absolutely_ had to, so. Yes. I suppose I did.” 

Then, before Jon can say anything else: “You _really_ ought to eat something, you know. I know we don’t get tired, not in the normal sense, but — _something, Jon_.” 

“The next restaurant we see, I’ll make sure to pick something up, Martin,” Jon says, very dryly, gingerly getting himself to his feet. Martin scoops his bag up with one hand until Jon’s settled, and then helps him arrange it back onto his shoulders, smoothing it down despite the way the raw skin on his hand aches just a little. “...Thank you. I’m sorry. It still… takes me by surprise, sometimes.” 

“We really need a way to snap you out of it, you know,” Martin tells him, digging in his own bag for the wet wipes, now down to the last few. He wipes his hands clean after tugging Jon’s over and starting with him, cleaning the grime and the dirt off, and then glances back at the shadowy depths behind them, considering. “Can’t you just, you know, _Know_ how to get me to snap you out of it? I don’t mind trying, but…” 

“I know. It isn’t an ideal scenario for either of us, but I can… appreciate its difficulty for you. I am glad that your first instinct isn’t to smack me every time, though.” Jon’s lips twist in a ghost of a smile, there and gone just as quickly as Martin sees it. “Even if I might, ah, deserve it.” 

“More than a little, sometimes,” Martin says primly, catching Jon’s hand in his own uninjured one, daring to glance out on the new landscape of the newest domain. “...So. _The Desolation._ It’s, um, warmer? I’m not really sure that’s a good thing, yet, but we can see and it’s not so cold. Any… ideas on what we’re going to run into here?” 

Some of the softness fades out of Jon; the way Jon squares himself, becoming less _Jonathan Sims,_ and more _Archivist._ There’s a faint ring of green around his pupils, just a flicker as Jon surveys the barren landscape around them, the crumbling mess of trees and what looks like a small sub development, houses in various states of disrepair. 

He’s getting better at realizing when Jon’s going to go all spooky Archivist; it’s something about the way Jon holds himself, tighter, tenser. Martin reaches a hand out and curls it around Jon’s elbow lightly, squeezing when he catches the twitch of Jon’s lips in response. If the Eye operates how they’ve heard and read, then… well, Martin doesn’t think that it’s a stretch to imagine that Jon is using _it_ to scan the whole area. It’s also not a stretch to consider that the Eye _probably_ can use everyone else’s eyes. Watcher and Watched, and all that. 

...Which probably means it can see out of _his_ eyes. That’s. Disconcerting. 

“Jon,” Martin starts, just as Jon blinks away the green, leaving behind familiar brown. “When you’re doing your whole… _Watching_ thing, ah, whose eyes are you looking out of? _Everyone’s_?” 

As soon as he’s voiced the question, Martin becomes very aware that he does not really want to know the answer to this. Worse: before he can take it back, Jon’s face twists. He looks down, away, mouth open on a word but clearly hesitating, like the words jumble up behind his teeth before he bites down, swallowing them. It’s enough.

“Oh.” 

“I don’t — Martin, I don’t, with you.” Jon shifts, plants himself in front of Martin like Martin doesn’t have a good foot of height on him, like he has any hope of stopping Martin if Martin _really_ wanted to get past. Probably a weird thing to find cute. “I told you I wouldn’t Know anything about you without your permission unless you were in physical danger. Remember?” 

Looking out of Martin’s eyes isn’t the same as Knowing, exactly, but that’s not a battle Martin wants to fight. “I know, I trust you. Shouldn’t’ve asked, really.” 

The thing about Jonathan “I’m _very sad_ ” Sims is that under all that bristle, he’s marshmallow-soft within. Martin _knows_ it. Deliberately, Martin reaches out his hand and dwarfs Jon’s between both of his own, gentle. 

“It isn’t... “ Jon starts, looking to Martin as if he’s judging his reaction before continuing. He _has_ gotten better at this. Bringing it up or trying to congratulate Jon on it will absolutely be the worst possible answer, Martin’s learned _that_ too. Too much praise, and Jon turns into one of those flowers that turns in on itself if they’re given too much sun.

“No, no, I asked. Probably better I know at least a little of all… this.” Martin shakes his head, keeping half an eye on the burnt horizon, even _if_ Jon can harness every eye in this whole place. “Wait. But you _can’t_ see out of Daisy or Basira’s eyes?” 

Abruptly, the whole _seeing out of other people’s eyes_ thing is much less creepy and much more useful. Well, probably equal parts creepy and useful, but Martin is decidedly trying to be a glass half full kind of post-apocalypse person. “It isn’t. I can’t, I mean I suppose _theoretically_ , with time and practice, I _could, but—”_

“Drinking the ocean through a straw, right.” Martin frowns out against the burning, burnt landscape, considering it. Is that a relief or is it sort of disappointing? Both, maybe. Everything felt so much less complicated _before_ the apocalypse even if he’s aware it was just a different sort of tangled web.

“I’m not even entirely sure it _is_ everyone’s eyes. It… we try so often to assign what we know to these beings and their powers, but I’m afraid we’ll fall short sometimes.” Jon glances around and then heaves a sigh, slipping his hand free of Martin’s to dump his bag on the ground with a clatter. “We’re safe, inasmuch as we _can_ be safe here. We ought to rest. You were, quite literally, carrying both of us here.” 

Against his will, he feels his cheeks flush at the way Jon gives him another up and down that’s so rawly fond and appreciative. It’s a distraction, without any pretense, and it’s still effective because Jon is _the worst._ “I, ah, well— _Jon._ ” 

“Mm, it almost worked,” Jon hums, unrepentant, helping Martin settle his bag onto the ground with slightly more care than he’s shown his own. “It isn’t so much… looking out of any particular set of eyes. More… echolocation, maybe.” 

“Like a bat.” 

“Or a _dolphin_ ,” Jon retorts, and Martin feels a laugh startled out of him, replacing the groan as he gingerly sits on what was someone’s cobblestone fence, once. Jon settles himself down in front of Martin rather than on the plenty wide enough fencing, settles so Martin’s knees rest on either side of his shoulders. 

“Oh, that’s better?” Going from constantly moving to abruptly _not_ moving _and_ with Jon settled against him, Martin feels himself start to relax in increments. He hadn’t realized how tired he was, even with it being… effectively impossible for him to actually tire. Or hunger. Or… well, die, or do anything, apparently. Somehow, he’s still tired. Which fear’s fault is _that?_ “So it’s… big picture, rather than _Google Street View_.” 

Jon’s shoulders shake with a breath that’s almost a laugh, and his head tilts back until his temple rests against the inside of Martin’s knee, his exhale warm even through the thick fabric of Martin’s jeans. Gingerly, he reaches a hand down and traces a streak of gray in Jon’s hair from root to end, flattening his hand against the nape of Jon’s neck when he feels Jon melt into him. “It was a… decent analogy, though. The Ceaseless Watcher isn’t just a name. It watches… everything. Anything that happens underneath its many, many gazes. It allows me to assess things, creatures, people, that would potentially… anyone we would rather not run into.” 

“Like, for example, Jude Perry,” Martin sighs, wrinkling his nose. Given everything so far, it seems very, very likely that they’re going to run into her, but maybe (ha) they’ll be lucky. Maybe she’ll have heard what happened to NotSasha, and she’ll decide, nope, I want to stay alive, I’ll just leave them alone. Probably not. She seems like the kind of person who’d walk into the fire, not away from it.“I’m sorry. I know it’s difficult.” 

“I know you want to find them. I do, too.” One of Jon’s hands rises, searching, and Martin slides his palm over Jon’s, loosely clasping hands. “We’re going to try.” 

Would Martin feel better if Jon were the type to lie, and say they _were_ going to find them? If he wrapped up the truth and reality inside a soft blanket, coddling Martin from it? No. Well, mostly no. “We’ll need their help.” 

Jon pauses, like that’s not quite what he expected Martin to say, the conclusion that he expected Martin to draw from everything that’s happened. Does he somehow have a plan for what to do (outside of smiting everyone, which, valid _and_ effective) that doesn’t involve them finding everyone? “With… what, exactly?” 

Martin pauses in his careful finger-combing of Jon’s graying hair, smoothing a thumb over the curve of one of Jon’s ears, half-hidden by unruly strands that refuse to stay back behind. “Well, um, with everything?” 

“Everything,” Jon repeats. 

Discussions with him wouldn’t be so infuriating if Jon weren’t like the recorder himself, parroting back what Martin is saying as if he’s not quite sure he’s heard Martin right. 

“Yes, everything! End of the world, the Fears running rampant eating everything, a whole group of people who really, really want to kill you but _can’t_.” Martin’s voice rises near the end, high in its incredulity before he swallows it back down and shakes his head, folding himself over where Jon has nestled on the hot, dead ground. “Everything. We don’t know if we can do this on our own, but we’re _trying,_ right? Well, wouldn’t it be easier? With help?” 

“Easier?” Jon murmurs, catting into the slow, steady strokes of Martin’s fingers through his hair. “I’m… not certain easier is the right word. Easier to get our friends killed. I don’t believe any portion of what we’re going to encounter could be categorized as ea—” 

“Is this _really_ preferable, Jon?” Martin’s hand shifts, pausing its petting, and he curves his fingers along the sharp line of Jon’s jaw, tilting his head just a touch so they can look at each other properly. “You can’t mean to tell me you think either of them, Daisy, Basira, that they would really prefer _this_ to at least _trying_ to set things right again.” 

“W-well, no, I don’t think the literal _end of the world_ is preferable to how things were, just,” Jon trails off, looking up at him with an odd, pinched look that Martin wants to smooth away. This is going to be an argument, maybe. Martin’s not sure if he’s relieved or dreading it, because it’s not as if he particularly enjoys fighting with Jon, but sometimes the man is so stubborn he’s positively stupid, and Martin thinks he’s the only one to shake him out of it. They’re the only two people in the world not trapped in this nightmare that they’ve found; maybe he is. “Assistance would be… a pleasant change, but, we don’t know where they are, or… Martin, it may not _be_ Daisy and Basira that we find, not anymore.” 

This, of course, is something that Martin has considered during long, sleepless nights spent just _walking,_ when the air was too thick and tense to consider speaking about all of the anxieties jumbled up in his chest, making them Jon’s problem too. It’s possible, maybe even likely that the Daisy and Basira that they run into might not be them anymore, but it’s arguably more possible that they _will_ be. Outside of Jon’s self-sacrificing streak, Daisy and Basira are the two most stubborn people Martin has ever had the distinct pleasure of knowing. They wouldn’t fall to this. Melanie and Georgie, too. They’re here; Martin’s _certain_ of it, just like he’s certain that they need to find them to keep moving. 

“It will be,” Martin says, because Jon isn’t the type to make empty promises he can’t keep to soothe. They’ll find Daisy, Basira, and everyone else, and if something is wrong, they’ll fix it. Jon literally went into a coffin in a pit to fetch Daisy; he went into the Lonely to bring Martin back. If _anyone_ can do it, well… “Jon. What’s the point of doing all of this if we don’t at least try?” 

Jon is going to argue, Martin thinks: all the signs are there. Jon’s shoulders tense, his jaw sets, he gets that look on his face like he’s preparing to tell someone that no, that’s quite enough, he’s gotten their statement and he’ll show them the door. Then, it fades. Jon folds into himself a little, tightens his hand on Martin’s grip to a point of pain, almost, and closes his eyes. “You sound so certain.” 

“Ah. Um, well. I am,” Martin fumbles, not quite sure if that’s a compliment or not, really. “What’s that saying? Two hands are better than one?” 

“I suppose eight hands must be exceptional.” Jon turns his head back, letting Martin go back to untangling the mess of dark strands, exhaling slowly. “Another minute or two, and then I… I’ll need to record again. It ought to be safe enough for you to take a walk, so long as you don’t go terribly far.” 

“There go my plans for storming the castle alone,” Martin tells him dryly, rewarded for it with a brush of chapped lips against his knuckles. “Don’t worry. I can keep myself busy. I’m sure there’s _loooads_ to do in a place called the Desolation.” 

“Quite,” Jon agrees, already reaching into his bag for the recorder neither of them placed there, like it’s second nature. His limbs unfold from where he’s tucked himself, resettling onto the ground braced against the cobblestone, fingers curling around the recorder. Martin rises up, makes his aching knees cooperate with him, and tugs his backpack onto his shoulders. When Jon looks up at him, his pupils are rimmed in green. “I”ll try to be fast.” 

Martin makes an attempt at a smile in response, and leaves him to it.


	2. desolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the Dark was cold, the Desolation is achingly hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jonny simms jossed the order of domains, as well as how they go down, but whatever, I'm bringing people back to life or into the fic left and right, NO GODS NO KINGS it's fic
> 
> please enjoy Helen and Jude

If the Dark was cold, the Desolation is achingly hot. Underneath his feet the ground _crunches_ , grass and flowers turned to nothing but crisp, dried husks of their former selves, the ground split open in unquenched thirst. 

They don’t _need_ water, but walking past the ashed remains of another multi-story house’s yard, a mailbox, someone’s garden, Martin is just _desperately_ thirsty. All of the houses are so _big_ here. They’re unsettling in their size; they’re not cramped in together like the little alleyways of London. Each house is simply massive, two or three stories, a fenced in yard, a garden long since dried out. Distantly, further down, there is the sound of fire, of screaming. Martin’s skin crawls, but Jon hasn’t taken them closer, not yet.

Martin circles the fence, delicately stepping over it rather than trying the gate which looks like it’s just as likely to rust clean off and fall down if he so much as breathes on it. There’s a courtyard, with a birdbath placed in the center, surrounded by more jaggedly set cobblestone that was once, probably, quite neat. When he peers into the birdbath, there’s nothing but the crust of white, and what once _was_ a bird and is nothing more than a small collection of bones. “I really don’t know what I expected,” Martin tells it, weary, and then, the door to the house creaks open, bit by bit. 

There’s no wind here. Nothing that would cause a door to open, which means it is _almost_ certainly something spooky or otherworldly— and if _that’s_ the case, almost certainly some sort of trap. Jon’s still recording away, but he said that there wasn’t anything dangerous nearby, so… 

Martin shifts his weight from foot to foot, trying to decide what the best option is going to be, and decides he may as well. Dust, or maybe ash, gathers on the flat curve of the doorknob, his fingers leaving faint impressions against the metal; he wipes it off against his pants as he ducks in. Should he have… knocked? 

“Um. Hullo?” Martin’s neck cranes from side to side, but the house is, seemingly, empty. There are paintings on the walls, landscapes now faded and pockmarked with holes or edges crisped. A few have faces, but the faces are… wrong. It takes him a moment to realize it, looking at one in his scan of the walls and then he edges closer. The faces look… worn away, almost. As if someone forgot to paint the face when painting the head, or it were just wiped clean. Cobwebs gather at the edges and corners of the paintings’ frames, touched with ash or dust. “Oh, no. Nope.” 

Martin’s back straightens and he decidedly places one foot in front of the next, continuing down the hallway away from the incredibly creepy paintings. It’s… odd. The other domains, _areas_ , had noise to them. He hadn’t noticed until he was inside, but nothing good generally comes from the silence. He’s listened to enough statements to understand _that._

Maybe there’s something useful in here, though. It isn’t as if they really need to eat or drink or sleep or anything, but, well. There ought to be beds here and if this is the first safe place they’ve found, in as much as any place can _be_ safe, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to camp here for a bit. In a real house, with a real bed. 

There’s a kitchen at the end of the hall and Martin isn’t proud to say that he _maybe_ runs, just a little bit. They don’t need to eat but it’s not as if food would be a _bad_ thing, right? Besides, it’s the first house he’s been in _properly._

Stepping into the kitchen, he realizes he’s made his first mistake. There _are_ people here. Emaciated, dry-skinned husks of people, but they are _people_. Sitting ringed around the table like some sort of dinner party, dressed in clothes once, probably, fine and fancy and now dusty, ill-fitting, hanging from knobby shoulders. No one looks at him as he comes in. A fork scrapes across an empty, ashed plate, a rasped noise escapes from one of the bodies. Martin turns on his heel and _flees._

No one follows him— out the door, down the hallway past all its creepy paintings, back out into the courtyard, his heart pounding a panicked rhythm in the back of his throat. Are _all_ the houses like that? Filled with husks of people who’ve lost everything? Or, is something else there — this area of the domain is filled with these massive houses; maybe it’s the Desolation’s intent that they stay here, with nothing, in their opulent houses like some kind of layered punishment. 

Either way, Martin doesn’t really care to find out, or to go into another house at _any_ point. Hopefully, Jon’s done with his creepy monologuing and they can get moving out of this place. “Jon!” Martin winds around the broken fencing and feels the breath knocked out of him in relief as he sees Jon sitting there, back straight, lips moving, eyes a thousand miles away as he speaks. 

“—but the house is not a _home_ , no— this, too has been taken from them.” 

“Oh, of _course,_ ” Martin hisses, because of course it’s about this family, of _course_ it’s about how utterly creepy this whole nightmare place is, and of course Jon isn’t done yet. Anxiously, he bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting, waiting, keeping an uneasy eye on the horizon. Time drifts, for a while. He’s distantly aware of the steady rise and fall of Jon’s voice, but not the words; it’s much more comforting and much less disconcerting when it’s just the thrum of his voice without the horror of what he’s describing. 

Eventually, it stops. 

Jon stops being the Archivist and becomes Jon again. Martin eases closer once more and Jon’s hand rises, catching his without needing to look for it. 

“All done, then?” Martin asks with false cheer, grounding himself with the feel of Jon’s hand in his — thin, rough, but not emaciated, skeletal. 

“I… yes, I think so. As done as I can be— ah.” Martin shifts their grip until he’s clasped Jon’s forearm and pulls him up steadily, watching Jon’s faintly startled expression. “Thank you. Did you find anything interesting?”

“House full of skeletal people around a dinner table with all the food rotted away,” Martin tells him, even though there’s no hint of compulsion behind Jon’s question, just an idle inquiry he doesn’t think before making. “...Sorry, um.” 

“No, no, I— well. I asked, didn’t I.” Jon shoulders his bag once more, gives Martin a once-over that has nothing to do with affection or warmth, and everything to do with making certain Martin is still in one piece. Whatever he sees seems to satisfy him, because he nods once, the hair Martin had been fiddling with falling into his eyes before he tucks it behind his ears once more. “That’s… Desolation, I suppose. We ought to keep moving. Jude Perry will be here somewhere, even if she’s managed to remain mostly hidden from me so far.” 

They likely will run into her, because their luck hasn’t been particularly stellar so far, but Martin agrees; the sooner they get moving the sooner they’re out of this nightmare, and onto the next. Woo. Progress.

Passing through the neighborhood, if it could even be called that, they cut along a street and move onto the next one. This, Martin realizes, is worse. The houses aren’t sprawling, massive labyrinths of space and decadence that’s fallen, they’re… normal. Small family houses, some burnt out. Some are still on fire, awful, pained noises creeping through the windows. A doghouse lies empty next to a family home, the home’s shutters hanging limply by rusted screws. Silent, Martin crowds a little closer to Jon, skin crawling. 

“Are… are there people? In all of them? Can’t we—can’t we _help?_ ” Martin asks, mouth moving before his brain does and realizing abruptly he still really, _really_ doesn’t want to know the answer to the list of questions that threaten to tumble free. “Nevermind, I know the answer.” 

Jon glances back and up at him, chapped lips in a thin line and nods, leaving it alone, blessedly. For a while, they walk. Past houses, past dilapidated shacks, past lawns that should be wildly overgrown and instead are covered in nothing but dead, ruined grass and cracks in the ground, as if the Earth hungers to swallow the homes whole if given half a chance. 

They take a turn, following a cul de sac street down further, the tower in their path never seeming to change position no matter which direction they go. Abruptly, Jon stops and Martin runs straight into him, nearly bowling him over before he catches Jon by the back of his jumper. “Wh-what? What is it?” 

“I think you mean _who_.” A voice. A woman, just the faintest bit of nasal spite to it, comes swanning out of one of the smaller houses, stretching as if she’s only just woken up. “Hel _lo,_ Archivist, Archivist’s… pet.” 

“What!” Martin manages, torn between offense and the first tinglings of fear. Jon stands steady between him and the woman, short and mean-looking, her close-cropped hair styled out of her face. She is, Martin supposes, attractive, in a mean sort of way. Short, angry Asian woman in the Desolation, who knows Jon. Ah. “J-Jude. Jude Perry.” 

“Jude,” Jon says, no warmth to his voice in any way. The hand that’s slick with scar tissue and still bothers him in the middle of the night clenches into a fist and then releases; Martin isn’t certain if it would help to hold it or not. “ _What are you doing here_?” 

Despite the compulsion, Jude keeps striding toward them, trailing her fingers along the wooden fence of the house she’s exited, each plank disintegrating into ash behind the wake of her finger. “Popped in for a meal. I _heard_ you were out and about on the town. Drinking in the fruit of your labor, Archivist? Isn’t it _lovely_?” 

Jude spins in a gleeful circle, arms stretched toward the watching sky, the ink of her tattoo dark and ominous, almost in motion against her skin. Martin’s stomach twists. “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t think it is. Your loss! What about your hulking shadow, hm? I know _he_ had a little look inside the houses earlier. What could _possibly_ bring you to my little slice of… well. Maybe _heaven_ isn’t the right word, but you get the idea.” 

“Just… we’re just passing through,” Martin says cautiously, not sure if he’s going to wind up helping or hurting whatever Jon has planned, if anything. 

“You don’t have to talk to her, Martin,” Jon says, voice like ice despite the searing heat. He’s still standing in front of Martin, as if he can shield him from Jude’s potential wrath. Maybe he can. “We’re leaving.” 

Jude matches their pace easily, all five feet nothing of her, beaming up at Martin with a smile that on anyone else might be called friendly. It reminds him more of a shark. “Without finding out what I _know_?”

“Tell us,” Jon says— no, _orders_ , as if there’s no other response but cooperation with him. 

Jude fights it; Martin can see it happen, the way she twitches and her wax-model face goes tight, furious, fighting the traitorous urge of her tongue to respond. “One of your _friends_. I may not be able to burn your tongue out of your mouth, _Archivist_ , but I can and _will_ burn the very insides out of _him until he’s a husk_ , no matter how much potential he’s lacking.” 

It’s— well, it’s quite rude, sure, but that’s kind of par for the course when it comes to monsters pissed at Jon. Insults are nothing new, but the way Jon reacts to them _is._ It’s the same incandescent fury that swallowed him earlier, with Not-Sasha, resulting in her being wiped out of existence. Martin’s not exactly _upset_ at the idea of that happening to Jude, the world would probably be a better place without it, without _her_ , but she still hasn’t mentioned _which_ friend. 

“You won’t,” Jon tells her, furious and certain. The nape of Martin’s neck prickles, and when he turns, he abruptly wishes that he hadn’t. The Eye, the tower - it hadn’t _moved_ when they were walking toward it, but Martin is absolutely certain that its attention is focused wholly on them right now. Waiting to see what the Archivist will do, no doubt. “If you _touch_ him, what I did to Not-Them earlier will seem like a _kindness_.” 

“Ooh, _Archivist_ ,” Jude purrs, delighted, rather than scared. “I’m beginning to think you _don’t_ enjoy this brave new world you’ve created for all of us.” 

“Tell us who’s here,” Jon snarls, instead of any sort of response. The Eye keeps its focus on them, so heavy Martin can feel the weight of it. He can’t imagine what Jude must be feeling, but that unsettling smile still stays curled on her lips. Slowly, like a beast stalking its prey, Jon comes closer, and Martin watches that smugness start to fade from Jude’s face, bit by bit as she struggles against the compulsion. “ _Tell me who is here, Jude Perry.”_

It can’t be comfortable. It _can’t_. Someone made of wax doesn’t have pores, can’t sweat it out, but she looks as if she’s just run a marathon, face pinched tight, hands clenched at her sides, making pained, awful noises. Her jaw moves once, twice, and then pain flickers across her face. She turns to Jon, and spits at him— no, spits _something_ at him, a steaming, melted hunk of pink and red that splats on the ground. Martin jumps back with a yelp, half-expecting that it will be fire or something equally unpleasant, but it just… melts. Squinting at it in the dim lighting, Martin tries to puzzle out what she’s spit at Jon, and then Jude speaks, a garbled series of words, through ragged, choked laughter, and he _realizes_. 

“Oh. Oh, _ohohohoh, nope.”_ Martin takes three fast steps back, caught by Jon’s iron grip around his wrist, keeping him there. “ _Jon!_ She— that’s her tongue! She bit, oh, _god_ , she— _”_

“It’s wax,” Jon says, not a hint of mercy in his voice. He takes one step forward, crushing the waxy remains of her tongue under his scuffed leather shoe, and grinds it into the dirt until it’s nothing but a pink, disgusting smear. “A creative way to answer the question, I suppose. You’ll want to leave unless you want to lose more than your tongue.” 

For a moment, Martin’s scared she won’t, and then realizes how foolish that is. If she doesn’t, Jon smites her, and boom! No more Jude to have to deal with. Not the worst outcome. The issue _is,_ Martin’s not sure Jon doesn’t _want_ to smite her. All that power wound up inside him, full to the brim, and Martin isn’t certain whether the idea that Jon wants to kill her or doesn’t is a better option. Martin doesn’t quite _know_ what Jon wants out of this, but he’s also not the one kind of, sort of— turning into a monster that _can_ just smite someone by looking at them. 

“We’re leaving,” Jon tells her in no uncertain terms, and then proceeds to start off, Martin’s wrist in his grasp like he’s a particularly unruly child. He probably ought to be a little insulted by that — like, why would he _stay_ where the creepy fire lady is hanging out and could probably kill him, but instead there’s this awful little thrill that goes through him. He’s not sure if it’s because of Jon’s leashed ferocity, or the fact that he’s just… tugging Martin along for the ride that does it for him, but it’s probably better to figure that out later. “Martin.” 

“Yes! Yes, coming, absolutely _not_ staying here, thank you.” Martin adjusts his bag and tugs his wrist free just so he can loop their fingers together, grasping Jon’s cool, dry one in his (unfortunately, larger, sweatier ones) holding it tightly. Only when they’re far past where Jude was, leaving her behind them, does he dare to say anything else. “She. She _bit off her own tongue_ and then told you the answer? That’s a bit, well, erm. Excessive, isn’t it?” 

“I suppose not, if you really want to be… uncooperative,” Jon sighs, his grip on Martin’s hand finally loosening to something that isn’t cutting off all the blood pressure to Martin’s fingers. Lightly, Martin squeezes, just for the way Jon gives him a brief, barely-there smile and leans into his shoulder. “Unfortunately, I think it means we’ll be stuck here longer than either of us necessarily would prefer.” 

“We have to stay until we find them,” Martin agrees, his thumb rubbing slow, warm circles against the waxy surface one of Jon’s knuckles. “I don’t… really know what she said, though, so how are we supposed to start searching?” 

“They’re close,” Jon answers, which kind of _isn’t_ an answer at all. His voice goes all vague and distant again, like he’s looking without doing the whole silent Watcher thing, and then he turns them down a side road. It’s filled with more rotten houses vaguely _less_ destroyed than the last, the horizon seeming to bend infinitely in a curve, never ending. “Jude wouldn’t have come to find us; she’s working her way through this domain, eating it, each house like a multiple-course meal.”

“Oh. Gross.” That’s… creepy, but that’s sort of the point. “Wait, but… what happens when she runs out of houses? No one dies, not really. And, well, doesn’t the Desolation kind of depend on… _that_? You know, feeding off the lost potential, the destruction, blah, blah, blah?” 

“It does,” Jon leads them past a series of houses, one of which has a tire swing attached to a withered husk of a tree, the tire swaying back and forth despite the lack of wind. 

“So, well, aren’t they… going to run out of food? You know, eventually? If people aren’t, um, _making people_ , then it’s just the same ones over and over again, and the world’s kind of — _this_. Isn’t the buffet going to run out, eventually?” It feels a little disrespectful to call the Earth a buffet, but that’s really sort of what it _is_ at this point. “What happens if the Desolation runs out of food?” 

Jon’s loafers crunch against grass as he keeps leading them through a yard, moving with purpose now. “I… assume it will need to adapt. Figure out an alternate food source, or…” 

Oh, _oh,_ Martin _really_ doesn’t like the _or_ in that sentence, there’s no possible way that’s going to be a good thing. “Ooooor?” he hedges, because he can’t stop himself, just like Jon can’t stop himself from unloading all the knowledge in his head. 

Jon’s footfalls slow, and in his bag, Martin hears the steady _click_ of the recorder. “The Desolation, the Lightless Flame, the Blackened Earth. Known by many names, all varying levels of the same truth. It seeks to destroy, to take all of the potential in any one thing or person and burn it out.” 

“Oh, come _on!”_ Martin says, much too loudly, not irritated with Jon so much as the great, hulking tower and the fact that it can just make Jon go all spooky if Martin asks the wrong question. “I do _not_ want to carry you again.” 

Jon, frustratingly, doesn’t seem to notice or care that Martin is chastising him, so Martin dutifully tugs him over until they’re settled under a copse of trees, now mostly withered and barely more than very large sticks. Jon’s bag is settled off to the side, the recorder tugged out so it’s next to him as he speaks; it would be almost soothing, if it weren’t for where they are and the fact that everything wants to kill them here. 

It isn’t as if he can take a walk, either, not with Jude very much apparently wanting to find out if she can kill him. Wonderful. What if he just… made it so Jon couldn’t talk? If the whole thing happens because he’s talking, then couldn’t he, hypothetically— shove something in his mouth? Then again, that might be a terrible idea; what if it causes Jon to explode, literally _or_ metaphorically? Like a bunch of mentos stuck in a coke bottle where the lid is never taken off? 

...Eurgh. Okay, maybe not the _best_ mental image. 

Behind him, distantly, there’s the crunch of dead grass under a foot. Martin freezes in place, reaching for — for _what_? It’s not like he has anything but Daisy’s (frankly terrible) tea, some clothes, rope, and maps in these bags, none of which he’s really needed so far. 

“Don’t even think about it!” Martin says with more force than he really expects even from himself. He doesn’t have a weapon, but he has the spare tape recorder, and he thinks that it might be a little satisfying to just… _chuck_ it at Jude, even if it wouldn’t really help. “I”m— I’m _armed_ , and you don’t scare me! You can’t _touch_ me, not unless you want to end up like—” 

_“Martin?”_

The arm held aloft lowers in an instant, the tape recorder dropping to the dry ground with a muted thud, and Martin whips around, staring as Basira rounds a house, gun in one hand and a knife sheathed on her belt. For a moment, Martin doesn’t know how to make _sense_ of all of this. He’d known that Basira was alive, but — _here_? 

A series of noises that want to be words tumble out of his mouth, strangled and jumbled, and Basira is just _staring_ at him— gun leveled, glancing from him to Jon, standing there doing his creepy monologue. Slowly the gun lowers.

“It’s safe to come out,” she calls over her shoulder, and then two figures come out behind her. One, a lanky, skittish teenage boy who stays in her shadow the whole time: the other, a man whose face looks… off. Not off in the way that the Lightless Flame wax people do, nor in the way that the monsters do, but just… off. Too smooth, too tight in some areas. It takes him a moment to put together who it could be, and when he does, Martin has to bite back the noise he wants to make. “Martin.” 

_“Basira,”_ Martin says, and against his will he feels his throat close up tight, his eyes burn traitorously, and he drops his bag and goes straight for her, winding both of his arms around her in a hug that’s probably much too tight, except for the fact that she’s squeezing him just as viciously. “Basira, oh my god, you’re _okay,_ you— you are _okay,_ aren’t you? I mean, I know that okay isn’t really a _thing_ here, everything is very much not okay, but you’re not _hurt_ , you’re—” 

“Martin, _Martin_ , yes, I’m fine, but you have to let me go.” Basira thumps him once, twice, solidly on the back, and Martin withdraws unable to avoid the watchful eyes of one Jack Barnabas, and the teenager who can only be Ethan North, both of them armed, for all the good it would do. “What’s Jon doing?”

“He’s — ah, he’s recording, over by the house.” Martin shifts a few feet aside, giving them all direct line of sight to where Jon stands, sightless, murmuring into the recorder. “The more things change, huh?” 

“Why is he recording right _now?_ In the _open?”_ Basira holsters her gun, and they head together toward Jon, the newcomers following her like ducklings. “Come on.” 

Her hand around Martin’s arm keeps him from turning back to the other two, but he cranes his neck around and gives both of them a sheepish little wave of his hand. “Erm, hello! Martin Blackwood, A-Archival… Assistant? Um, former, Archival Assistant.” 

Ethan watches him with eyes almost too big for his face, face pale, hands clutched around a knife that’s barely more than a glorified pocket knife. He says nothing. Next to him, Jack’s face moves in an expression that is likely meant to be a smile, small as it is. “Jack,” Jack says shortly, nodding. “You knew that, didn’t you.” 

“Um, I— well, I suspected? Basira, we don’t want to get too close, he’s— he’s a bit _busy,_ if you catch my meaning?” 

“Busy,” Basira repeats, dubious, but they’re close enough now that she can hear Jon’s steady intonation. She listens to a few words and then turns to Martin, eyebrows raised. “He do this a lot lately?” 

_“So much,”_ Martin says with a choked laugh, scrubbing at his cheeks shakily. “Every… every _domain_ , it’s— he doesn’t mean to, but I can’t snap him out of it, and he just needs to, you know. Get it all out.” 

“In the middle of the Apocalypse.” 

_“I know.”_

“Uh, not that there’s anywhere _better_ to go, but should we really be standing here?” Jack asks, Ethan having come to stand behind him, hair flopped into his eyes, still holding that knife in his hands. “It’s not safe.” 

“Well,” Martin starts, and then stops, because it’s one thing for Jon to promise to protect _him,_ but it’s something else entirely when there are other people. Jon already carries so much weight and responsibility on his shoulders. It’s not up to him to carry the whole of the world, even if Martin _knows_ Jon won’t see it like that. No shades of gray when it’s all of this. “You’re… right, we probably should get moving, but we can’t, until—” 

“Until Jon wakes up,” Basira finishes, unimpressed. Footsteps steady, she heads up in front of him, plucks the recorder and firmly says, “Jon. _Jon!”_

“It— it’s not going to _work,_ Basira, trust me, I’ve tried!” Torn between wanting to stay next to the other two so nothing happens and wanting to make sure Basira doesn’t try anything _too_ extreme to wake Jon up, Martin takes one step forward and then wobbles, tugged between two points equally, drawn taut between them. “The only thing that works is letting him, erm, just _get it out_ , you know?” 

“We don’t have time for him to monologue, Martin.” Basira barely looks at him, clicking the recorder off. “Jon, wake up.” 

“S’not going to _work_ ,” Martin says again, wearily, but not willing to fight this battle. In her hand, the recorder clicks on again. 

“Then I’ll wake him up.” Basira draws a hand up and smacks him, clean across the face, loud enough that it startles a noise of shock out of both Ethan and Jack, but it _works_. Jon staggers, bringing a hand to his face, blinking out of his haze, holding a hand to his face. 

“ _Mar_ tin, what the _hell?”_ Jon demands, which, wow, _rude?_

 _“I_ didn’t—” Martin protests, high, offended, his hands decidedly nowhere near Jon’s body in the slightest. “Jon, _look!”_

It seems a little silly to tell _Jon_ to look, but he doesn’t seem to realize at first, despite the fact that Basira is standing in front of him, red handed, as it were. His expression does something odd — twisting, first in shock, then decidedly in worry, and settling somewhere between, her name out of his chest in between, clenched teeth. “ _Basira?_ ” 

“Hi, Jon,” Basira says calmly, handing him back the still-recording tape, which he fumbles initially, still startled. “Good to see you again, even with all of this.” 

“I-it’s… it’s good to see you too. How did you _find_ us?” Leaning around Basira, his eyes find Martin first, and then scan over to the sight of the two lingering just a bit away, both nervous. “Jack Barnabas?” 

“In the flesh,” Jack says dryly, and Martin has to stifle a slightly hysterical giggle at the very bad joke. “Who is this?”

“Jon— Jonathan Sims, but I suppose you would… you would’ve known my predecessor. One Gertrude Robinson—”

“Archivist.” Jack’s voice is flat, unimpressed. “Great.” 

To be fair, Martin… kind of gets it. Jon’s voice is tart in response. “I forget what it’s like to have people happy to see me. Better than being _smacked,_ I suppose.” Jon’s gaze swaps to Basira, who gives him a mocking little wave in response. Next to her, Ethan is watching them like it’s a particularly interesting game of ping pong. As if he doesn’t _already_ know, Jon turns to Ethan. “And you?” 

Basira steps in front of them. It’s too quick to be anything but intentional, hiding Ethan from sight once more. It’s so weird that Martin thinks she’s seen something, maybe— then Jon takes a step back and laughs that fake little half-laugh, and Martin _realizes._

“ _Basira!_ ” Martin hisses, offended on Jon’s behalf and utterly unsurprised when Jon lifts a hand, giving him a long, unsurprised look. Martin’s ire turns in an instant. “ _Jon!_ No!” 

“It’s okay.” Jon’s tone gentles, even though the situation is very, very much _not okay_. “Really. Sorry. Where are you… you must have been going somewhere. Looking for—” 

“Haven’t found her,” Basira says, flat. “Do you know how this happened?” 

Jon’s back stiffens, his mouth open, clearly caught on what to say. “I— yes. It’s not… _quite_ the conversation we ought to have around others?” 

“We won’t,” Basira answers, glancing back at the other two who seem perfectly content to let Basira and Jon argue this out, whatever it is. Martin shifts his weight, not sure if he ought to be keeping watch while Jon’s talking, or if he ought to come up to him, try to convince Basira that this isn’t nearly as bad as she seems to think it is. (Then again, maybe it is? It _is_ the end of the world.) “Is Elias still alive?” 

“Yes,” Jon’s voice isn’t doing that Knowing thing, but he doesn’t need to; instead it’s low, angry, like the very mention of Elias’ name is enough to stoke the rage he’s kept banked in his chest for so long. “The goal is to change that.” 

“Right. Is Daisy still alive?” 

That question seems to throw Jon; he blinks, tilting his head at her. “You don’t kn— yes, she is. Hunting. She’s cut her way across half of the domains here, but I haven’t found her, yet. We’re going to. Basira, I promise, we’ll find—” 

“Did you do this?” 

Martin’s head whips around and he squawks at Basira, even more offended on Jon’s behalf, but Jon only looks at her for a long, long moment, and then nods. 

“Yes.” Jon doesn’t make any excuses, doesn’t _explain_ that he didn’t do it, he was tricked into it. He just nods, owns it, and Martin wants to shake him all over again. “I’m trying to fix it.” 

“Of course you are.” Basira shakes her head at him, clearly displeased, but pulls something out of her bag. “Doubt it helps, but it’s better this stays with you than us.” 

A book, wrapped in scraps of yellowed newspaper. Once Jon’s taken it, she turns on her heel, heading toward the tower, trusting the others to file in behind her. “Let’s go. Got a lot of ground to cover before we reach the next domain.” 

Her two ducklings follow, casting wary looks at Jon and Martin as they match her pace and leave Jon and Martin to take up the train, protecting them from the back. Martin wants to point out maybe they ought to let the man who can see everything into the front to lead, but it isn’t as if the tower is particularly… subtle. So, they keep up the tail of the train, and Martin takes Jon’s hand a few steps in, not surprised when Jon barely does more than squeeze it lightly while they walk. 

* * *

By the fire, Ethan is bundled under their coats, his knife clutched tight to his chest, while Basira sits between him and the rest of the world. Opposite, Jon sits, recording his spooky messages, sifting through the statements that Basira had brought. It leaves him and Jack in...an odd position, really. How do you explain that you know someone without really knowing them? You don’t, Martin supposes, but it’s weirder to just act as if Jack isn’t here, especially when he’s _not_ sleeping. 

Is it… tacky? To ask questions about his statement? Tasteless, maybe? Especially given how poorly everything went down? Then again, maybe Jack could… well. Use some closure. Last he heard, Agnes died, and that was… it. Now he’s sitting in the shriveled husk of the world, the same as he would have been had Agnes succeeded, maybe if he hadn’t happened. 

“Just _ask_ ,” Jack says suddenly, quiet enough the others can’t hear them. “All of you, you — _archivists_ , asking questions is your thing, right?” 

“W-well,” Martin starts, and then realizes that maybe it _is_ kind of their ‘thing’, even if he wouldn’t consider questions a 100% necessary part of his life as it is. “It’s… about Agnes. Agnes Montague? I, erm, understand if you’d prefer not to talk about it, given…” 

“Feels like maybe I should be asking you questions about her.” Jack crosses his legs in front of the fire, the heels of his boots just a few scant inches away from where it pops and crackles merrily, real and true warmth, like he’s tempting fate by edging so close. “You lot seem to know more than I ever did.” 

“Oh. I… suppose that’s true, actually.” Martin tugs his knees up to his chest and winds both arms around them, chin resting on his knees. Glancing over at Jon shows he’s still there, the green glow of his eyes visible in the dim lighting. How much is he supposed to tell Jack? How much is even _safe_ to tell Jack? “Not… everything, but a lot.”

At least the other man doesn’t press too hard. He seems to read Martin’s discomfort and doesn’t dig deeper. Instead, his eyes follow Martin’s to the hunched figure out Jon. “Your Agnes Montague, huh.” 

_“What?”_ Martin startles out of staring at the fall of Jon’s hair in his eyes, the consideration that he kind of… likes how long it’s getting, even if Jon isn’t the fondest of it. In his mind, he has the horrific visualization of Jon leaning in to kiss him, eyes and mouth full of green flames. 

“The Archivist. I’m not stupid, they’re… him and Gertrude, wasn’t it? They’re involved in all of this. More than the rest of us are. We’re just… standing on the sidelines, waiting to be tagged in, hoping we aren’t.” Jack nudges one of the sticks closer to the flames, watches it catch, flaring and fading. “Whatever’s going on… Basira said you’ve all been doing this for years. Makes sense. That’s what your Institute does, right? Did. Takes all the statements of the creepy stuff that’s happened to people and follows up on it.” 

“...pretty much?” Martin winds his arms tighter around his legs, desperately wishing for some water, wanting to make some tea even if it’s a silly thought. “And— and I suppose he is. Less flames and more, um—”

“Eyes, yeah. Creepy,” Jack says, but it doesn’t sound like a criticism. “Hope it turns out better for you than it did for me, for what it’s worth.” 

He hadn’t really… considered what it would mean, dating Jon _properly._ Of course, he’d assumed he would die, eventually, and being a part of the Archives wasn’t exactly a good sign if you wanted to live a long life and die of old age. Dating the Archivist — the man who unintentionally ended the world — certainly wasn’t the most promising when it came to trying to extend his life, but then again, it was the end of the world. Spending it with Jon was arguably the only good way to spend it. 

“Th-thank you? I hope so too, um. That’s very nice of you?” Yeah, perfect, nailed it. Great job, Martin Blackwood, positively stunning. “I guess he… sort of is.” 

“Seems like it. He got a destiny, too?” Jack sinks back, resting against his backpack, cast in shadows from the fire. “Agnes did. I don’t think she… ever really wanted it, but it’s not like she had a choice in the matter.” 

Was this destiny? Jon hadn’t ever mentioned it, but it didn’t seem like destiny, not in the typical sense. More than anything, it actually just seemed like the shittiest luck. 

“I don’t think it’s destiny, just… bad luck, mostly.” Martin almost laughs, winding his arms tighter around his legs, incomprehensibly weary. “How much did Basira tell you about all of this? Of us?” 

“Nothing, really. She doesn’t… talk much. Says she’s hunting something, someone. Mostly we avoid anyone we run into, since pretty much everything wants to kill us, or torture us, or both. Besides Ethan, we haven’t run into anyone else.” Jack picks up another piece of tinder on the ground and tosses it into the fire with a sigh. “Didn’t really matter what I thought about destiny, with Agnes. She was so certain she had a destiny, and I don’t think I could have convinced her of anything else. Not with all of those people. The— the _cult_. Whatever they were, they had her, and I don’t think I could have saved her from it. Maybe she had it easier. Dying before all of _this._ I mean, I thought about it. God, I thought about it so many times, but… well. Can’t change the past.”

“I suppose not,” Martin agrees softly, closing his eyes against the light of the fire, which seems much too bright at this point. “I hope it’s… not. Destiny, I mean. I know it’s probably stupid, but... I keep hoping we’ll find our friends. Get Jon to the tower. We’ll figure out a way to fix _all_ of this. I know you haven’t really met him, not properly, but… Well. Jon’s one of the most _frustrating,_ stubborn people I’ve ever met. Then there’s Basira, Daisy, Melanie, Georgie… all of them. Probably more likely we all _die_ and that’s that, but I want… I want to believe it’s not destiny. It’s a catastrophe, sure, but you can come back from a catastrophe. You can rebuild. Destiny sounds like a fixed point. I just hope this...isn’t.” 

“I hope so.” Jack sighs, heavily. “Do you know how to? Fix it, I mean.” 

“Um. Technically?” 

“Oh, _fantastic.”_

“Yes, _well,_ it’s a bit of a work in progress. We’ll figure it out!” Martin says, with all of the certainty he doesn’t feel, not really. But _someone_ needs to be the kind of person who is aggressively optimistic, and it isn’t as if Basira or Jon are going to fit that bill. “We _have_ to. It’s a decent incentive, all things considered.” 

“Guess so,” Jack says, which sounds an awful lot like he _doesn’t_ guess so, but is too polite to argue with Martin. Evidently Jon isn’t interesting to stare at just reading, because when Martin opens his eyes again, Jack’s focused on him. “You were gonna ask something.” 

He’d forgotten, with the other talk, and when he tries to think about it, all of the questions he wants to ask get all jumbled up. “I, well, I listened. To the tape, I mean. Your statement.” Is this invasive? It seems invasive, but now his mouth is working and it won’t stop. “That was really the first time either of you touched? But you were dating for months.” Not quite the question he means to ask, or really wants to; it feels horrifically insensitive since their first time touching resulted in Jack’s face literally being burned off, but. “If it helps you can ask me something, too. A-And, you don’t have to answer. I get it if it’s… sensitive.” 

“Not so much anymore,” Jack answers slowly, unclear if he means his face or the lack of Agnes in his life. “We hadn’t touched before that, no. We didn’t _need_ to. I guess we weren’t… dating in the typical sense, nothing about what happened is _typical,_ but we were... together, I suppose. We spent time together, we did activities together, and I might not have known exactly how she felt about me, but there was something there all the same. You don’t need touch to be intimate. It helps, but it’s… not a requirement.”

That, Martin supposes, is true enough. Jon’s lack of interest in sex isn’t a deal breaker. It _is_ a bit odd to be sexually attracted to someone with the knowledge that they probably won’t ever _have_ sex, but Martin had just sort of accepted that, because the _idea_ of sex wasn’t what he loved about Jon. It was a benefit, sure, when he was originally (well, fantasizing sounds so _creepy_ ) thinking about this, but no. Not a requirement. 

“I think I understand,” Martin says finally, glancing over to Jon, who seems to _finally_ be done, flipping through his paperwork rather than recording. “Did you have questions? For me, I mean. It’s only fair.” 

“Just the one.” Jack gives him a long look, like he’s not sure he really wants to ask, or know the answer. “Was it a suicide? That’s… well, that’s what they told me. Suicide. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I want to believe she escaped. Whatever that— that _cult_ wanted from her. She told them no, but that would mean suicide was the only option and I... “ 

Martin waits, not sure if he’s going to finish the thought, but when the silence continues, he knows he has to answer. Jack’s owed that much. “In… a manner of speaking. She was a— a _conduit._ The cult, her mom was in it. They did some ritual, which resulted in Agnes, who was supposed to bring all of this _here_. But she didn’t. Because she met you. She decided she didn’t want to do that. So… she’d pass, and maybe they’d get another attempt.” 

It’s rather romantic, in a terrible, tragic sort of way. They’d meant to undo the world, years of planning, of waiting, of doing all of these awful, awful things, and all of it was undone by a chance meeting in a coffee shop. Martin’s not sure if it would make Jack feel better or worse, though. On one hand, Jack’s _existence_ prevented the Lightless Flame from succeeding, but on the other hand, it wasn’t enough to save Agnes from it, from her _destiny_. They’re parallels, to a point, he and Jon, Jack and Agnes. Hopefully, not to the same extent. 

From the corner of his vision, Jon slowly unfolds himself from the position he’d been in, coming over to the rest of them. “We’ll want to get moving again soon,” Jon says from beside him, his bag thumped down next to Martin, Jon following.

Martin jumps, startling into the hand that settles at the nape of his neck, strokes down the line of his spine before rubbing warm circles at the small of his back. The silence seems to be a good enough indicator something’s odd; Jon winces. “Are you… Ah. Am I interrupting?” 

“Um,” Martin says, not quite sure if that’s a question he can answer. 

“No, we’re done. Gonna try and get some rest.” Jack stands, dragging his bag over closer to Ethan, settling himself between Ethan and the fire. “Thank you, Martin. I mean it.” 

“Y-yeah, of course, um. Any time? Thank you, too.” 

Jack rolls over, facing away from the fire, and then they’re left alone, or as alone as they can be. 

“That… seemed like a heavy conversation,” Jon hedges, making a startled noise when Martin gives up on holding his knees and just kind of slumps into him, mashing his face into the rough, unshaven curve of Jon’s throat. “...Martin, are you _quite_ alright?” 

“Yeah— yeah just— can we sit here, for a while?” Martin shifts his head a little, winding an arm around Jon’s waist so he’s not supporting the whole of Martin’s weight, the burden shared. “Until we have to start moving again.” 

Jon’s head turns, and he presses his lips lightly against the crown of Martin’s head, lingering. “Of course. As long as we can.” 

* * *

The walk through Desolation still feels like it takes literal ages. Martin’s long since stopped asking for the time, or questions about how long they’ve walked, no longer wanting to know. A long time. Ages. Time is fake and a construct and the addition of the Fears into their world means that walking for fourteen hours is both possible and yet, nothing more than a long stretch of immeasurable time filled by the rise and fall of their feet. He ought to feel tired again, but it’s a different sort of exhaustion. His boots ought to be rubbing holes into his socks, his feet, but somehow they’re just fine, no blisters at all. Ethan’s just a _kid,_ he ought to be tired, but he doesn’t complain like Martin half-expects he would. Walking through the end of the world is still better than experiencing it as one of the victims, though, so maybe he’s just… glad that’s how this is. God, that’s _depressing._

Eventually, the silence seems to be too much; Jon hasn’t had to record, and for the most part, they just have to _walk_ through Desolation, not encountering any of its Avatars. Basira’s iciness doesn’t melt, but she does let Jon walk up front with her, while Martin takes the end with the others, half-listening. 

“You’re taking them through the Hunt?” Jon asks quietly, matching his pace to hers, just barely loud enough for Martin to hear. “Are you… certain that’s wise?” 

“Not seeing another choice, really.” Basira glances over at him, chin jerking at the two trailing behind with Martin. “We need to get to Slaughter’s domain. They’ll be safe there.” 

“S-sorry, _sorry,_ what?” Martin speeds up, coming to Basira’s other side, incredulous. “Are you saying they’ll be safe in _Slaughter_ ’s territory? Slaughter? _The_ most violent one out of basically _all the Fears?_ ” 

Behind him, he hears a little intake of breath and regrets that he’d brought it up, but also, they’re walking through the end of the world and _going into Slaughter_ to escape it doesn’t really seem like the best option. 

“Oh,” Jon says faintly. “No, Martin. It will be safe. Safe as anything here, ah, can be, given the circumstances.” 

“What?” If both of them are losing their minds, that’s probably not a good thing. “How do you _figure?”_

“Slaughter feeds off of violence, but also the threat of it. The lingering fear that slaughter and violence _will_ happen, without reason, without knowing.” Jon’s tone goes from realization to something rather like pride, a faint laugh escaping him. “Melanie’s gathered as many as she can there. A stronghold out of sight within Slaughter. The fear keeps it sustained, and the knowledge that if someone breaks through the defenses and kills all of them, it can glut itself on the sacrifices.” 

“Yeah,” Basira doesn’t sound nearly as impressed by the leap of logic, digging her teeth into her bottom lip as she looks back, checking both of her ducklings are still there. “Mostly, the others leave her alone. No one wants to risk it.” 

The noise Jon makes means that he understands it, but Martin _doesn’t,_ constantly feeling like he’s one step behind. “Risk… risk what, exactly? Risk killing everyone in Slaughter and giving it too much power? Killing people so there’s no more food?” 

“Melanie’s turned into one of Slaughter’s Avatars,” Jon tells him, quietly. “If a massacre were to take place in Slaughter’s domain, she would receive the whole of it, and revenge herself upon anyone foolish enough to come after them. They’d just be more meat for the grinder, and that keeps the area secure, until the others can sort out a way to come after her.” 

“Oh. Yay?” Martin sinks back into step with the other two, Ethan plodding one foot in front of the other, not looking at them, Jack looking anywhere _but_ at them. “But we still have to cross through the Hunt to get there, right?” 

“That’s the plan.” Basira sighs. “The faster, the better. We don’t want to be in the Hunt’s territory any longer than we have to. Can you… see if anything is going to come toward us?” 

Jon shrugs, his backpack lifting and falling on bony shoulders, a little sheepish. “I _can,_ but the Hunt is… different. Daisy’s effectiveness comes partially from her ruthlessness, but also from the fact that she knows how to stay hidden. How to stalk her prey.” A sigh. “There is a reason Elia— _Magnus_ chose her for the tasks he did.” 

“If she shows up, Jon…” Basira’s tone lowers, barely audible and next to Martin, Ethan tugs his hoodie up over his head, arms wrapped around himself. Jack gives Martin a helpless little look, glancing from Ethan to the others pointedly. “It’s on me to handle. Not you.” 

_What am_ I _supposed to do?_ Martin mouths, and Jack throws his arms up in a shrug, which is just— absolutely the most helpful. “Erm, maybe we talk about how to handle Daisy _after_ we— Ethan?” 

The youngest has fallen out of step, staring down an alleyway between two houses, one of them ancient, decrepit, half-leaning like it’s fit to fall over with a strong breeze. At the end of the alley, mockingly bright against the dim lighting is a yellow door with a matte black handle. 

“Oh, for—” Jon sucks in a breath and releases it heavily, already heading for the door with the rest of them following, Basira taking up the end this time, watching the alley. His knuckles rap twice against the door and Helen pops the door open right on the end of the second rap, just as Jon takes a step back. “Hello, Helen.” 

“He _llooo_! Oh, you’ve brought _friends_ this time, have you?” Helen slides out of her door with an unsettling movement, like her body has too many joints, movement over-exaggerated. Ethan steps back and runs straight into Martin, who pats his shoulder lightly. “You don’t need to be _scared_ — Jon, tell your ducklings that I’m not going to _eat_ them.” 

Jon does no such thing, giving her a tired look, and Helen laughs, loud and pleased. “Why are you here?” 

“I don’t know _how_ many times I must explain it, but I really _am_ here to help! All of you are going to try to cross through the Hunt’s territory, aren’t you? A trail of sheep, led by a wolf, stalked by everything the Hunt has to offer?” 

“Sorry, _who_ is she?” Jack asks finally, arms crossed. “Is she one of _them_?” 

“You needn’t sound so rude, little duckling, you’re wandering around with things _much_ more dangerous than I am,” Helen tells him, leaning against her door lazily, idly picking at a too-long nail. “You want to pass through the Hunt’s domain, but that’s going to be _awfully_ difficult when you are also trying to keep all your sheep herded.” 

“If you have a _suggestion_ — _”_ Jon starts, only for Helen to laugh, again. 

“Oh, I _do,_ thank you for _asking,_ Archivist!” Helen buffs her nails against her neatly pressed suit jacket, beaming. “Wouldn’t it be _so_ much easier if you didn’t have to worry about escorting these little lambs straight to the Slaughter?” 

“Do you really have to phrase it like that?” Martin asks, to another peal of unearthly laughter. 

“Unless you have a better plan… you _do_ have a plan, don’t you, Archivist?” Helen gives Jon a long, long look, which Jon meets, unimpressed. “Surely you’ve figured out your next steps by _now._ After making it this far, _surely_ you understand what you have to do.” 

“Jon,” Basira says, less a question and more a statement, cutting him a look. 

It becomes clear that Jon does _not,_ in fact,have a plan, from the way his mouth opens and closes, the words cut off. “We— have _a_ plan,” he starts, only for Helen’s laughter to cut him off again. 

“ _T_ _hink_ , Archivist,” Helen purrs. “Your plan as it is no doubt involves you dying a very dramatic death trying to take Jonah Magnus down, and perhaps you _may_ succeed, but you’re not thinking of the big _picture!_ Tell me, how have you found the other domains you made your way through? Everyone seem _happy_?”

“I-Is that a joke?” Martin asks, honestly not sure. “They’re awful. All of them. Of course the monsters there are happy.” 

“Are they?” Helen presses, still smiling. “How long do we think that will last?” 

_“What?”_ Martin asks, not sure if he’s missed something. 

“How long do you think it will last?” Helen asks again, her smile widening unsettlingly. “How long until the buffet starts to rot?” 

“I — do you expect us to _care_ about them starving? I’m not exactly going to be _upset_ if Jude runs out of people to torture.” 

“That’s not the point,” Jon says softly, staring at Helen with wide, wide eyes. Next to him, Basira’s lips are pressed into a thin line, clearly waiting for _someone_ to make sense, just like Martin is. 

“Now you’re getting the picture,” Helen sing-songs, laughing at the end of it. “Would you believe me if I said it was the Buried that figured it out first?” 

“Of course. Joshua Gillespie. Lived in fear of the coffin in his house for a year and a half.” Jon drags a hand over his face, his tone shifting as he recalls the recording. “ _It’s funny how fear can just become as routine as hunger - at a certain point I just accepted it._ ”

“We’re all going to eat, to _gorge_ ourselves, and it will be a long, long time before we begin to feel the first pangs of hunger. But we will. And when all our food is gone, what do you think we will turn to next?” Helen’s smile is all teeth as she leans dramatically out of her door, laughing. “And when we run out of each other to eat?”

“The Fears will begin to consume their Avatars,” Jon finishes. “You don’t seem upset. That confident you can eat the Fears?” 

“Oh, no,” Helen says. “I may pick one or two off, but even my power has its limits. I might take a few of their Avatars, too, but even then, well. When there are no more humans to feed from, I do wonder what the other Avatars _think_ the Fears will feed on next?” 

“All of you.” Martin stares at Jon, stomach twisting. “They’ll feed off of you, like when you… when you get sick from not recording.” 

“Mmmm,” Helen hums, drumming her inhumanly long fingers along the frame of her door. “Now you’ve got the shape of it. So, Archivist. What’s your _plan?_ ” 

Behind, Jack slings his bag to the ground and sits, back against the alley wall, Ethan settling in next to him after a beat of hesitation. “Seems like we’re gonna be here for a while.” 

Martin lingers next to them, eyeing the shade that covers them from the unsettling sky, the cobwebs scattered across the corners of the awning. When he squints, he thinks he sees a spider, but it’s gone just as soon as he tries to focus.

“Have you spoken to the other Fears, their Avatars about this?” Jon asks, and oh, Martin recognizes that tone— the fierce, driving desire to know, to _understand._ “You’re… what, suggesting I appeal to their… _better nature,_ to try and turn things back to how they were?” 

“Mmm, I don’t think any of them have a _better nature._ No, you’d have a much easier time appealing to their hunger. Any of the newer Avatars, those like _us,_ will have a better understanding.” 

“All of these Fears have spent _centuries_ trying to make this happen,” Basira points out, frowning. “Do you really think they’d, what, allow for a do-over? That they’d let this go back to normal?” 

“They might,” Jon whispers. “They spent centuries trying to bring _their_ patron over. Bringing all of them… none of the Avatars considered it, considered what it would look like trying to divide the world among every fear. There’s no neat way to do it; the domains are… shifting. Fluid. The rules of time and space as we know them don’t necessarily apply.” 

“So you... what?” Basira asks, staring at Jon. “You want to go back and try to convince all of these other Avatars and their Fears to just… turn this back?” 

“Hm! That’s _much_ more polite than I was thinking,” Helen says. “It isn’t as if any of the _others_ worry about your human standards of politeness. I don’t think you much need to worry about that. No, I think a more pressing concern is exactly _how_ you’re planning on waltzing into the Eye’s territory. Just some… food for thought, shall we say. Now! I’m sure we _all_ have such better things to be doing, but I’m feeling _generous.”_

“Lovely,” Jon sighs. “What kind of ‘generosity’?” 

“Well… you and your little lambs need to cross through the Hunt to get to Slaughter, but wouldn’t it be _easier_ if the little lambs could take a shortcut?” 

_“What?”_ Martin asks, just as Basira puts herself between the boys on the floor, like a human shield, spitting a flat, _“No way, no chance.”_

Jon, shockingly, is the only one who doesn’t instantly protest. “Jon!” Martin objects, loudly. 

“Martin, I’m _wounded._ I’ve _told_ you I only want to help. I can’t take your Archivist with me, and I know you two are attached at the hip, but I _can_ take these three.” 

“You mean eat them!” 

“I’m devastated you think my sense of self-preservation is so lacking, Martin.” Helen touches a hand to her chest, wounded. “No, I know if I snacked on any of them, the Archivist would be _very_ disappointed in me. I’m suggesting a _deal_ instead. I’ll take the three of them to Slaughter safely. _You_ will collect your feral friend, and when she’s less likely to try and destroy the inside of me, I’ll fetch her. Then follow your— what did you call it, Martin? Your _quest_? I’ll… just pop over when I get peckish.” 

“You want us to feed people to you,” Jon says, flatly. _“Innocent_ people, in return for—” 

“Oh, _Archivist,_ you have so little _faith_ in me! No, not innocents, even if that word doesn’t have much meaning these days. The world is terrible and large, I’m sure you’ll run into a few people who would… do well with a bit of a walk.” Helen brushes an imaginary piece of lint off her suit, and tilts her head. “So.” 

“Absolutely _not_ —” 

“Jon,” Basira cuts him off before he gets too far, and Martin sucks in a surprised breath. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised; Basira’s always been logical. Practical. “I made it out of the Circus. If this is a trap, I can get them out of her.” 

Helen bursts into peals of pleased laughter. “I really don’t think so, but I appreciate your _certainty._ Maybe we can try that later. I do like a challenge.” 

“I don’t think it is a trap,” Jon says, watching Helen, the faintest tinge of green to his eyes. When Basira notices, her hand flickers to her waist, where the knife and gun are holstered, and then her thumb hooks in her belt, hiding the motion. Jon doesn’t seem to notice, but Martin does. Wonders, horribly, if she’d have the power to do it. Jon isn’t Daisy. Maybe she would. “She knows if it were, there is nowhere she could hope to hide, no door that could shield her from me. That _is_ a threat.” 

Helen’s smiles look so creepy because she has too many teeth, Martin realizes abruptly. Too many teeth, too many bones in her arms and legs, not enough that it’s visible right away but just enough to be _unsettling._ “I do hope your manners improve on your _quest,_ Archivist. Martin— do try to keep softening him up, will you?” 

It wouldn’t help to point out that he _is_ trying to soften Jon up, but that it’s difficult when it’s the end of the world. “I’ll do my best,” Martin agrees wearily. “Please keep them safe.” 

“No one’s going to ask us?” Jack asks from behind them, arms crossed over his knees, not sounding particularly surprised everyone is making decisions without their input. “What if you’re _wrong_?” 

“It’s the end of your world,” Helen tells him, beaming. “Are you telling me you _really_ have a better option?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as always to aerie for the beta! wash your hands, defund the police.


	3. the hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, but it's done! my beta isn't canon familiar though, and i plowed through the show too fast to remember everything, so if there's either a discord group for writers or someone who would be down to beta i would loooove to chat.

Jon records one more message when they’re alone again, the Leitner that Basira had passed him at the end tucked into his bag. Jude doesn’t seem keen on coming back and hassling them, so it’s just a matter of keeping busy while Jon records and then checking in on him when he’s finished. He… _does_ look better. There are still circles under his eyes, and he still looks achingly tired, but he _seems_ more alert. He lets Martin fuss over him, tying his hair back with one of the bands that Martin had snagged from the safehouse. It won’t stop being _strange_ that after reading all of these horrors out loud Jon actually looks like he's had a full meal. 

“All set? Off we go into the Hunt’s domain?” Martin tries for faux-cheer, leaning into the kiss Jon presses against his forehead. “Maybe we’ll… get lucky, and we _won’t_ run into Daisy. Maybe she’s just fine!” 

“I wish it were that easy,” Jon murmurs, offering his hand for Martin to take. After a deep sigh, Martin grasps it, and together they cross the next threshold and Martin’s breath is stolen from him. 

It looks — it looks _normal_. The sky is still creepy, there’s not really any sunlight in the typical sense, but there’s _some light._ Enough that grass and trees have been growing. Vines overlap the buildings they’ve eaten. Trees have grown absurdly large, overgrown and lush. 

Martin pulls against Jon’s hand and leads them to what used to be a garden, now long overgrown. Flowers bloom on the vines, the massive bushes starting to overtake their boundaries. It would almost be considered beautiful if it weren’t for the fact that it’s started to cover all of the buildings, hiding them from sight. Another reminder that the world they knew is long since past. 

“Why…? None of the other domains were like this, Jon— the _grass!”_ Martin says, touching a blooming flower gently, stroking his fingers over the petals. “Why the Hunt’s?” 

“A hunt isn’t any fun if it’s too easy,” Jon says quietly, watching their surroundings with a wariness that makes Martin stand up straight, paying attention. “The Hunt wants the thrill of a chase, of exhausting its prey; if it were over too soon it wouldn’t be worth the effort.” 

That’s… unsettling. Martin wrinkles his nose, withdrawing his hand from the flower, heading back to Jon’s side. “I guess it would be too much to ask for it to be just because the Hunt likes nature,” Martin mutters, sighing. “Should we get going?” 

“Quietly, yes,” Jon’s hand tightens around his, and together they cut through the undergrowth, stepping over the path that used to be a road before nature reclaimed it, bursts of flowers sprouting up from under the sidewalk and road cracks. 

It’s not just the plants, Martin realizes. There are animals, too. 

There’s a deer, at one point, freezing in place and staring at both of them before _bolting,_ vanishing into the tangle of trees and vines. Martin finds a laugh startled out of him, shockingly loud in the quiet. There are _birds_ here. Not many, but enough to be heard, and they’re some of the first normal things they’ve encountered this whole time. 

The Hunt’s domain seems larger than the rest, or maybe it’s just because it’s less empty, so it takes longer to traverse. Jon seems to think there’s no danger yet; he’s had the Leitner in his hand, mouthing words as he reads it. There’s a flicker of movement in a bush, and Martin inhales sharply, tugging at Jon’s hand. “Jon— _Jon_ , look!” 

“Rabbits, then?” Jon asks without looking, nose still in the book he’s been trying to make sense of for the last half hour. 

“It doesn’t count if you don’t look, _properly_ ,” Martin informs him very quietly, squeezing his hand. On his shoulder, the bag he’s been shifting back and forth slips just a bit. “You can’t tell me that you’d rather look at one of _those_ books over fuzzy ears and— Jon _, really._ ” 

“Apples and oranges, Martin,” Jon is quick to reassure, which actually answers the question Martin’s not really asking. Of course he’d rather read the book than look at fuzzy woodland creatures. Martin gets it, to a point; this isn’t something that happens all the time, the end of the world is an event and fluffy woodland animals aren't exactly stunning. Jon does, in fact, look up, because despite how appealing the book is, you make sacrifices for the ones you love, like looking at rabbits in the middle of a wasteland. 

Martin coos as a trail of furry bodies leap one after another out of the cover, a whole family of them. A herd. There’s probably a proper name for a group of rabbits, but that’s not really important. They cross their path, beady eyes fixed on them, hopping past, but they’re headed back toward Desolation’s territory, not further into the Hunt’s. Should he… stop them? Can animals even pass through the barrier between domains? 

“Should we… they’re going the wrong way,” Martin points out quietly, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “They don’t know what they’re going into.” 

“There’s nothing to eat on the other side of the veil, where the soil crumbles and the grass has long since given up the effort of trying to sprout. They don’t know enough to know what’s on the other side, but their options are limited. On one side, the certainty of being hunted down like prey. On the other, starvation.” Jon’s voice goes distant, but his eyes aren’t glowing, and he comes back a moment later, grimacing at himself. “Sorry. I know—” 

“It’s alright, Jon.” Martin hooks his chin over Jon’s shoulder, winding his arms around him gently as they stand there for a moment. If he closes his eyes, he can almost, almost pretend that this is a normal moment. That they’re taking a walk in a park, on the way back to their flat. Jon tucks the book away, finally, and fits himself in against Martin’s chest, temple resting against Martin’s collarbone. “Think of it this way— that wasn’t _nearly_ as spooky as it has been!” 

“Ever the optimist, hm?” Jon murmurs, smile hidden against the dip of Martin’s throat. For a moment, it’s quiet. Martin keeps half an eye on the rabbits as they slowly make their way through what was once probably a garden, shadowed by the trees. 

Against his will, a laugh bubbles up and out, smothered in Jon’s hair. “It’s a little wrong, I know— I know we don’t _have_ to eat here, but _sometimes_ I just– well, a little fire, some salt and pepper....” 

“You miss eating meals, yes,” Jon finishes, lifting a hand to cup his free hand against the nape of Martin’s neck, knowing without needing to Know what Martin was going to say. Martin laughs against him and folds in close, like he can somehow fit himself into the circle of Jon’s arms. “I understand what you mean.” 

Martin laughs a little louder against him and the bag he’s been struggling with along the way slips; he lets it drop, but there’s a clatter from the pots inside. The rabbits still and then bolt in an entirely different direction, into the undergrowth further into the Hunt’s territory and Jon tenses against him. _This_ time, Martin feels him leave, feels the slow creep of power, hears the tape click on, mockingly, in his pocket. Under his breath, Jon is muttering, a hand lifting to his head, and then abruptly, he folds. His knees go out from under him and Martin yelps as he suddenly has the weight of Jon to catch and steady, lowering both of them to the lush grass as gently as he can. 

What _happened_ ? It doesn’t make any sense, one moment he was fine but then he’d looked too long and hard at— at the rabbits? Why would _that_ cause such a strong reaction? Around them, the forest is oddly quieter; the birds have stopped singing and chirping with the commotion and Martin’s skin prickles, feeling distinctly like he’s being watched - different than the way the Eye watches. 

“ _Jon_ — Jon, _please,”_ Martin whispers, curling a hand underneath the back of Jon’s head, leaning over him. He could opt to carry Jon out of here again, but if they’re going to get chased it’s going to be a very unfun run. Lightly, he taps hs hand against Jon’s cheek, once, twice, and a third time just a little harder, hissing apologies under his breath. 

Jon comes back faster this time, blessedly. The green ring fades and Jon blinks up at him, dazed, unfocused. The fall must have had something to do with it; jarring him out of whatever Seeing he was doing, that snuck up on him, but what on Earth would he be looking at that would cause that? “Are you alright?” 

“I— yes, I’m fine,” Jon says faintly, very much _not_ fine, blinking up at Martin leaning over him like he’s startled to find him there. When Martin attempts to lean back, to give him some space, Jon fists his hand in Martin’s shirt and _holds_ him there. He could, of course, break the hold. For all that Jon is one of the fiercest people he’s ever met outside of Daisy and Melanie, he’s not terribly strong physically. He shouldn’t be able to pull, hold Martin there and isn’t strong enough to but it’s the _action_ that makes him pause, caught, rather than his strength. 

“Oh, is fainting normal, then?” Martin asks, dubious. “I thought you, erm, _ate_ earlier? What… what was that?” 

“I’m — I don’t know.” Jon drags a hand over his face, clearly trying to summon the urge to move or do more than just lie there on the ground, but needing a moment. Martin adjusts his legs underneath, giving Jon something more of a headrest by way of his thigh, tries— and fails not to worry. “It wasn’t — I didn’t _faint.”_

“You _absolutely_ fainted.” 

“I did _not.”_ Jon releases his deathgrip on Martin’s shirt and nudges him back with a fussy little huff, which is the best sign that he’s feeling better, in Martin’s mind. Feeling well enough to be prickly again. “It’s fine. _I’m_ fine. I’m fine.” 

“You know, it doesn’t get more convincing the more you say it, but sure.” Martin keeps a hand on him as they get back up once more and Jon wobbles, pressing fingers to his temple like he’s warding off a headache. The hand drops as soon as Martin sees it, but he’s not about to get into a fight in the middle of Hunt’s territory. Instead, he shoulders his bag and Jon’s own, waving away his protests. “You’ve got your book. I can handle this.” 

He thinks Jon’s going to object, but no, Jon mutters something under his breath and acquiesces, even if he doesn’t seem particularly pleased about it. Jon _does_ need to make sense of the book sooner or later. While he doesn’t let Martin near it (for good reason), Martin’s still relatively certain if all the horrors here won’t hurt him, then the books are reasonably safe. Not risking it seems like the smarter option though.

For a while, they walk. A straight plodding path through the forest, following the remains of a street, and for a while, it’s… nice. Martin would even say it’s _peaceful_ for a bit. Jon reads his cursed book, Martin keeps them from walking into a bush or a pit, and every so often Jon will work something out under his breath. 

It’s in the middle of what was probably a park that it goes wrong. They’re walking in the shade offered by the trees when Jon tenses next to him, head tilting. The book is tucked into his jacket, and in the bag Martin’s holding, he hears a _click._

“Oh, great, what _now?”_ Martin mutters. “See, I shouldn’t have said I liked the grass! I knew better, but I thought, oh, Martin, maybe it’s the last good grass you get to see for a while!” 

“Martin,” Jon says, quietly. 

“It should have the decency to click on _before_ something happens—”

“Martin,” Jon says, again, louder. 

“—and give us more warning,” Martin finishes, mulishly. 

“Martin. Shut up.” Jon says between clenched teeth. 

It’s not the first or the last time that Jon’s told him to shut up, but just like all the others Martin _prickles_ at it, a sort of aimless mad at Jon when he’s just trying to help. Just as he’s about to say something about how Jon’s _kind_ of a prick sometimes, Martin realizes why Jon is so very tense. Meters away from them, half-hidden in the shrubs, clutching a bloodied knife is—

“Oh. Oh, god. _Daisy?”_

“Don’t move.” Jon’s voice is low, tense, and Martin lets out a nervous giggle, fighting the urge to bolt. Probably _not_ a good idea to start running in the Hunt’s territory, not when its whole _thing_ is chasing down prey. Still, the way Daisy’s looking at them — like they’re a _meal,_ like they’re nothing better than meat. There’s the knife in one hand, and the front of her is splattered in blood and gore, smeared across her mouth in rusty flakes. Has she been eating — “Martin. Do not—” 

“Daisy, it’s _us,”_ Martin says softly, like he’s trying to coax an animal in close, barely resisting the urge to hold out a hand to her. Instead of answering, there’s a low, inhuman growl from her throat. With a flick of her wrist, she adjusts her grip on the knife, and Martin has a hysterical moment to be kind of impressed before he shoves that down as unhelpful. 

“Run,” Daisy growls at them, teeth a shocking white against the color of her skin and the blood smeared on her. _“Run.”_

“Do _not,”_ Jon tells Martin, stepping in front of Martin. “Martin, whatever you do, don’t run.” 

“I don’t— um, think I can, but— sure, yeah, yeah.” His feet feel rooted to the ground, like the Buried is back and sucking him down, keeping him affixed to the same spot. “Jon, she’s still in there. She has to be still in there.”

Jon seems to have the same thought. He isn’t attacking her, isn’t trying to wipe her out of existence so she was never there. They’re friends; Jon’s going to try and save her, because they’re friends, right? It takes Martin a moment to realize that he isn’t certain. Jon is...effectively, still Jon. Still fussy and sharp and a little mean, sometimes a lot mean without seeming to realize. But it would be stupid of Martin not to acknowledge that things have changed. Jon has changed. 

He might not be the level of monstrous that the others are, Mike Crew, Helen, hell, even _Elias,_ but the shift is still there and no matter how much Martin overlooks it, chalks it up to adjustment periods, he knows. If Jon decides that Daisy needs to die — if there’s no other _choice_ — no. There will be. There has to be, because the other option, that the end of the world happens and Jon has to kill their friends to get through to fix it isn’t one Martin will accept. 

“The Hunt is seductive, isn’t it. Just you and your prey, the beautiful simplicity of it.” In Martin’s pocket, the recorder crackles, whines, and Martin grips Jon’s hand tighter even as Jon stretches the distance until it’s just their fingertips clasped. “Losing yourself in it was likely all too easy. No fault of your own, of course. It’s a different sort of… insidiousness, the Hunt, the way it drives you.” 

Truthfully, Martin isn’t sure _what_ Jon’s plan is, but Jon tugs at their linked fingers and instead of moving back, they come closer, which seems like an _exceptionally stupid_ idea. 

“Jon,” Martin says, but takes a step closer, giving Daisy an attempt at a smile when she looks him up and down like he’s a particularly interesting slice of meat. The blood on her knife is still wet. 

“Everything outside of the Hunt is… complicated. Needlessly so, I’m sure you’re aware. All the rules and regulations, not that you ever really complied with them to the fullest extent, have you? What are a few… bent rules?” Another step forward, and Martin follows, feeling rather like they’re casually waltzing into the mouth of a very deadly lion, narrating it the whole damned time. “It’s simpler here. Just you and your prey.” 

Not… really making a good case for joining them, Martin wants to point out, but nope, they’re edging closer and closer, and Daisy’s low growl gets louder, the tape recorder’s whine growing in turn. 

“I’m afraid we can’t do this without you, Daisy. We need you with us for this, and I would… prefer to do this a different way, but— we don’t have much choice. You’re a knife, a weapon, and much as you would prefer not to be wielded as one without your own will, it’s what you’ve always been.” 

“Shut _up,”_ Daisy snarls, the words barely sounding like real ones, ragged and furious. Still, it’s progress. Daisy is talking to them, which means there is enough of her left inside to do so.

“It’s the truth. An ugly one, but the truth all the same. Basira understood. She may not have liked it, the necessity of it, but she understood you. How to take a weapon and humanize it. To allow it some direction in its attacks, some… autonomy. The Hunt may claim you here, but you were _ours_ first, and we _are_ bringing you back from here.” Jon exhales, and through their linked fingers, Martin can feel the wave of power that crests as Jon summons it, like a thousand tiny ants all over his skin, his very teeth aching at the rush.

Like this, _ours_ sounds remarkably like _mine,_ and Martin’s stomach flips as the power grows in pressure, the massive eye in the sky looking down at them, drinking in the sight of whatever they are going to do. 

Jon’s not great at being gentle, but this is as close as he comes, “I _am_ sorry about this, Daisy.” 

At first, Martin doesn’t understand what Jon’s apologizing for. They haven’t _done_ anything yet, but abruptly, Daisy’s whole body seizes, tenses; if Martin thought the growl she was making was bad, the scream that’s nearly a sob is infinitely worse. In Martin’s pocket, the tape recorder screams. Daisy drops the knife and collapses like a puppet with her strings cut, folding into herself, shoulders shaking violently with sobs. 

“Jon! Jon, what did you _do—”_

Jon’s hand releases and he walks up to Daisy slowly, crouching down until he can settle a hand at the dip between her shoulder blades while she shakes, and then she stops. Slumps into the ground, unconscious. 

“Magnus isn’t the only one who can take the knowledge of a person or event and inject it into a mind. I simply… brought the entirety of Daisy back to the forefront. Reminded her who she was. If we had more time I would have used less brute force.” 

Gingerly, he rises up from the grass and gives Martin an unreadable look, fastening her knife on his belt. “I’m afraid I’ll need your help to carry her, though.” 

“I can - of course, yeah, I’ll…” Martin crouches next to her, and after some fumbling, manages to get her over his shoulder. She’s heavier than Jon by far; dense muscle, dead weight. Shifting, he clasps an arm around the back of her knees and then huffs a sigh. “Right. To Slaughter, then?” 

“I suppose so.” 

It’s a long, miserable walk there but he’s carried Jon already. She’s not awake to fight him but she doesn’t have to be, to be heavier. Once he’s got Daisy settled in his arms, feeling rather like an apocalyptic packhorse Martin turns and sees a door bleed out from one of the thick tree trunks. The handle turns, and Martin swallows his relieved sigh.

Jon doesn’t sound happy about it but he doesn’t sound _un_ happy. “Ah. Hello, Helen.” 

“Hello, boys!” Helen trills, leaning out of the doorway that’s appeared in the middle of a thatch of trees and overgrowth. “Looks like _you_ could use some help and _lucky_ for you, I’m here to offer it!” 

“Yay, lucky us.” Jon says dryly, already heading to her door. “How did you know we were here?” 

“It isn’t as if you’re particularly _subtle,”_ Helen tells him, ducking into her door for a moment, coming out with a leather satchel only mildly splattered in blood. “You could at least _act_ happy to see me! After all, I've brought you _gifts.”_

“Gifts,” Martin repeats. “It’s not, like, limbs or anything, right? Or teeth? Who are they from?” 

“No, should I have brought you those? I’m _certain_ I have some teeth or bones rattling around in here no matter how hard I try to keep it clean.” Helen snickers at the horrified look on Martin’s face. “I’ll remember that for next time!” 

“No, thank you, no, we’re _just_ fine, just the right amount of limbs and teeth between us!” Martin huffs over the sound of Helen’s laughter, while Jon peeks into the satchel, eyes widening. “Good books?” 

_“That_ depends on your definition of _good.”_ Helen holds her arms out, and when Jon nods, Martin gently deposits Daisy’s limp body into Helen’s grasp, not surprised when Helen doesn’t seem to struggle with the weight of her at all. “As to _who,_ well. Less a who, more of a what. Gifts from the Flesh, Corruption, and the Web herself.” 

Jon snaps the satchel shut and throws it over his shoulder, a hand clasped tightly over the flap as if he’s afraid it will open on its own. Martin desperately wants to know what’s in there just as badly as he doesn’t. 

Despite the knife-fingers, Helen holds Daisy almost gently, adjusting the weight in her arms so Daisy’s head settles onto her shoulder. “Why, Jon, if I didn’t know any better I would say that you look _unhappy_ with your gift?” 

Martin glances over; unhappy seems to be a fair assessment. Jon’s lips are pressed tight into a thin line and he’s holding the bag tightly. Another mystery they’re going to have to solve, carrying books that will probably want to kill them just as much as everything else here wants to. Lovely. 

“Are they from their Avatars, or from the fears themselves? What do they expect me to _do_ with them?” 

“I haven’t the _faintest_ idea!” Helen starts to head back into her door with a cheery wave over her shoulder. “Have fun!” 

Then, just as quickly, they’re alone again. Martin eyes the satchel on Jon’s shoulder. “Leitners?” he asks, already knowing the answer. Jon doesn’t have to skim the covers to know what’s inside. “Of course. Journal of a Plague Year, Boneturner’s Tale, and A Guest for Mister Spider.” Jon dusts his hands off on his pants as if the act of touching anything close to those books is something that requires him to wash them. A deep breath in, out, and then Jon shakes himself, seeming to rally. “Come on. They’ll beat us to Slaughter’s domain, but we should get going before anything _else_ gets the idea to try and hunt us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my WIFE, DAISY TONNER

**Author's Note:**

> aiming to get this all posted over the neeeext 2 weeks ish? gotta say it's wild being in a fandom where my fics are going to be kinder to the characters than the canon is. 
> 
> thoughts, comments, feedback all loved!


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